Spurts
by RainyWinter344
Summary: She's like a Silhouette of a Goddess, occasionally accepting her fear and vulnerability but never appearing weak and unable to let feeling override logic. Re-Post of a series of older short stories.
1. Shield

I do not own Veronica Mars:

She runs down the hallway at a ridiculous speed. It was the only thing keeping a bullet from puncturing her body. It seemed like any other day. It seemed like everything was going to be a repeat of what it was last week. That was simply not true. She could hardly keep up the speed she was at any longer; she didn't know what it was. The Adrenalin should have been enough to keep her running for years. As she reached the end of the hallway she seemed to collide into a heavy number of other runners, a very heavy number. She blends into the crowd, not thinking, just doing. Under this situation, thinking would get you killed. You could almost feel it as the bullets went flying out of their Semi-Automatic pistol. The heat seemed enough to melt your skin off. She knew the bullets were extremely close to her, but she wouldn't dare risk it by jumping onto the ground. That could destroy any chances of her getting away from this. The shots get louder and before she has a chance to realize the crowd of runners have moved away from her and she is heading to the closest door on her own. He comes all too quickly as he sees the barrel of their weapon within point blank distance of her back. He grasps onto her tighter than anything in his life before, covering her entire body with his. She's struggling to get away, obviously not seeing that it's someone that wants to protect her. He knows that this is the end of life. There is just no way he would let her go before him. That wouldn't be fair. That is the only reason he's grasping onto her with every last second of life he has. He closes his eyes and keeps telling her he loves her in his head, but he could never get it out of his mouth. Right when their gun cocks is the moment he sees his father dancing around in his head. He's going down with him. That he's sure of. He'll be laughing his ass off, while his own son has to suffer the torture until the end of time. She thinks her life is over. She screams in fear. As they pull the trigger nothing but a loud snap of the flint smashing against the chamber is heard. Their gun is empty. The second he hears this their bodies are shot through the open door. He lets go of her, not by his own demands but the fact she was able to kick her way out of his arms. She watches in awe as the crowd tumbles over them, some stay behind in order to get on good beating out of them. She doesn't know what to say, she doesn't know why she's alive.

They stand at the door of his new apartment. He insisted that they go there. He didn't want her to leave him alone. She knew that was a lie. He simply didn't want to leave her alone. As she enters she notices the place is dull and almost colorless. He doesn't speak. Neither of them has spoken to each other yet. She doesn't know if she wants to. He only gives it a couple of minutes before he's at the counter pouring two shot glasses full of Whiskey. She's never liked it, but she doesn't care she takes faster than anything she's ever accepted in her life. As she shoots it down her thought she coughs and is spits a little out in the process. It doesn't matter to her, she shrugs it off. Before any of them knew what they were doing they had gone through over half the bottle. As they lay on his bed, both of their visions becoming slightly blurred, he tries to speak but realizes he doesn't want to destroy the beautiful silent environment they have created. He needs to get it all out. He owes it to himself. He leaves it for the next hour, not saying anything. She's about to pass out, there hasn't been a sound she's heard since the bullets. She's not sure if she should be worried or happy. She is still unsure if she should try and piece everything that had just happened to her together, she figures she won't bother. As it reaches night he finally sobers up and he forcefully takes the notepad from his night table and uses a pen he found in his pocket to scribble it all down. Moments later he leaves it on her chest. She doesn't react at first; it takes her some time to finally notice that he's left it there. He's passed out by the time she's mustard up the courage to read it. She reads through the whole thing, it brings her to tears. The whole thing jumbles on and on about what his life is like. He's lonely, something he repeats many times. She doesn't want him to feel that way. The whole note is full of things she doesn't want him to feel. She wonders if she should leave him, come back another day or not, think on her own accord for a while. Forget this little escape session. It wouldn't be the first time she used Echolls as an escape session.

He wakes up the next morning, she's gone. His head aches. He slowly stands and dresses himself in the clothes he wore the day before. He walks into the living room and sits on the couch staring at his own reflection in the blank screen of his television. Closing his eyes and applying pressure against his forehead in hopes it would clear his headache. It never does, not really. He leans onto his own lap, using his knees and elbows in order to produce a stand for his chin. He breathes in and out. She's like a Silhouette of a Goddess, occasionally accepting her fear and vulnerability but never appearing weak and unable to let feeling override logic. Its why she wont come back, he thought. Its why no matter how they get thrown into each other, he will only ever have her in spurts. Its also why he will never stop showing up for those spurts and attempting to make them longer, with any means at hand


	2. Aspirin and Beer

I do not own Veronica Mars:

Logan sucked against the top of the bottle, letting the cold beer slip down his throat. He didn't care whether any blood followed with it because there was no chance that taste would be overwhelmed. He held the bottle of aspirin in his hand tightly. He hated him; at that moment he wanted to shove six knifes through his crotch and leave him at a roadside. His insane thoughts never seem to last and for some reason he seemed to somewhat forgive the man. He will never be able to explain why. He knocked more than half the bottle of aspirin into his mouth, washing it all down with beer no more than a few seconds later. He barley gagged as he looked down the sink, he had done this so many times before. The bathroom door moved and his head fired to the side faster than hell. She stood there, looking so worried.

" The door ... the door was open. " The petite blond admitted.

She can't stop staring at the blood on his mouth. It's spread all over. She analyzes the situation, the only time it's been necessary. He's slouched against the sink, a beer in one hand and pills in the other. She doesn't rush to him but she is closer shortly, snagging the aspirin off of him.

" How many did you take? "

" A bunch. "

" Jesus, Logan. "

Before she got another word in he walked away, pouring the rest of the alcohol down his throat in the process. She put a lid on the pills and set them down, quickly wetting a nearby cloth afterwards.

" Logan. " She called out.

He stopped, turning to her. She calmly walked towards him. Once close enough began gently patting the cloth against him mouth. The blood was thick and beginning to dry. She did her best not to hurt him but he showed signs of it stinging now and again. After a short while nothing but raw skin was on Logan's mouth.

" Thanks. "

She smiled at him, wanting to give some warmth to the situation. She knew what happened but she couldn't say anything. Veronica wondered if Aaron ever felt guilty. She hoped, for his sake, that he did. She stroked Logan's face, trying her best not to stare at the fresh scar under his lip.

" Why don't we tone things down and go have a rest? "

" Will you read me a bedtime story? " He replied, jokingly.

She couldn't help but smirk, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

They were in his bedroom no more than a few minutes later. He sat on his bed, running a hand through his hair a few times. The chest area of his gray long sleeve shirt is covered in blood. She stood in front of him a moment later.

" Come on, take that off. "

He smiled somewhat, certain thoughts firing around his brain. It wasn't until he pulled the shirt up to his eyes that he noticed the blood stain in the chest. He ripped it off quicker than anything after that.

" Shit. "

" It's only a shirt, Logan. "

" I know but ... "

" What? "

" It's my favorite one. "

Veronica smiles lightly, taking it from him and looking at the mark closer. A short moment later she folded it up and put it on his desk.

" It's not so bad. I'll try and get it out later. " She told him as she sat down beside him.

Logan fell onto his back and rolled his feet onto the rest of the bed. Veronica did the same afterwards. He curled up onto his side, pulling her onto his back. She held him willingly.

" You're too nice to me. You know that Mars? "

She didn't reply to that she just buried her head into the back of his neck.

" You know, you can stay with me the next few nights. " She proposed.

Logan sighed.

" Don't worry. I'm a big boy. Let's just forget about it, okay? "

" Okay. "

She knew she never would.


	3. Changed Lives

Changed Lives

The air brushed against his shaven face at a calm level. It dried his damp hair in a similar fashion. Each strand never seemed so tough to slide through. His muscles were nearly dead. The tight collar pressed against them, all forced by his red silk tie this didn't even bother him. His father hated that tie, but it was his favorite. His final slap that unfortunately he couldn't give when the bastard was still alive, or maybe a belt a belt to the back, a whip, a chain whip, and blood, lots of blood. He quickly forced his weak fingers through his tough hair; he had to rip all of his sick thoughts out of his brain, he had what he wanted. The man was dead. The enemy rested with his demons, the things he never faced.

The priest talks a load of bull. About how he changed lives to the people he got involved with. He changed them for sure, but it was never a good thing, never something to be proud of. He feels ill. He's not sure why. Maybe because the one he loved died first. She was dead. He wanted to cry. He couldn't. It's not strong. It's not as much of a stance. It's not an attack. The priest continues but he's stopped listening. It's not important to him anymore. He can't handle hearing any more lies. His father was a bad man. He always will be, even dead.

The coffin begins to be lowered into the six-foot ditch. This is too respectable. If it were up to him he'd throw the body to a bunch uneducated cannibals. His father deserved no such solidarity in his death. The most he deserved was a brutal scene. The only things he ever caused during his childhood. Her hand squeezes his right then. He can smell her hair as her head falls onto his shoulder. She has such a tight grip. He knows she can tell he's breaking down. He doesn't want to be. He intended to come here strong. Maybe he really is weak.

His uncle passes the shovel towards him once he has dumped a load of soil onto the coffin. He can do this. He can be the better one. Show him that he didn't win, that he can live on. That he wasn't going to fail. Not like him. He was better than him. She lets go of his hand and backs away a few steps. All he has to do is take it, take it right in his hand. It's not hard. It's human basics. The wood falls against his palm and he wraps his fingers around it, soon taking it in his other hand as well. He's ready.

He forces the spade into the dirt. It doesn't have to be much, a small amount of dirt. He can finally throw his dirt back in his face. Why is it so difficult? He attempts to pull the shovel back; all he needs is a hunk of dirt, one minuscule hunk. He thinks about the feeling of throwing dirt against his fathers face. He thinks of it vividly, and sickly wonders if it's too late to open the man's coffin. So he could fill it with dirt, as if he was still alive. He pulls against the shovel with all the force he as left, he's sure it doesn't look like much at all. He rests his head down. He's not strong enough.

"You won." He thinks to himself.

He leaves the shovel where it stands. He can't let him see him cry. He can't let it happen. He's dead but he knows the bastard is watching him from hell. He can't let him see him cry, he won't.

He charges away from the graveyard at a heavy speed. This isn't how he planned it. He's thinking on his feet. He's losing the plot. He doesn't care. It's stupid now. He's lost and he knows it. He's caring. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want to. He's far off and she starts after him. She's surprised but not at all dumbfounded. She knew he had feelings. She knew this would hurt him, somewhere.

He slips into the back seat of his Xterra, slamming the door as he does so. He figured there would be less chance of someone seeing him through the tinted windows. Not able to hold it any longer he lets it out. Screaming and saying God knows what to the air. His tears are hot and salty. He does what he can to wipe them but there always seems to be more. She has been standing at the window for a while. Not sure if she should do or say anything. As he looks up he spots her. He just stares at her.

A moment passes and he gets sick of the staring. He opens the door; she stands there for a second. He is slightly agitated that he has to gesture her in with his hand. Sometimes she can be so oblivious. He scoots over right as she sets her foot against the vehicle. She shuts the door once inside. Silence corrupts the moment for another short while. She can feel the tension in the space, all the heat that has been produced. She can't even imagine.

" I ... "

" Will you do something for me? "

" Okay. "

" Make me forget ... Just forget it all. "

" I- " She starts.

" Shut up. Just answer. "

" Okay. "

" How you going to do it? "

" However you want. "

" Do it however you want. "

She leans into him and takes hold of him firmly, just staring into his eyes. She touches his lips with hers and he doesn't react much, he looks at her with almost anger. She doesn't know what to do so she has to think on her feet, he's challenging her to be something lunatic right now. Something that will put such profound stress on him that he will be forced to drop anything else in his brain.

He messily puts his shirt and pants back on, leaving her naked, sweaty, and out of breath as he left the back of the car and into the drivers seat. She drapes herself in her coat as he starts the car. He drives out to the beach and comes to a dead stop, without uttering a word he exits the vehicle and starts walking off into the sands.

He walks on the beach barefoot, his hands tucked deep into his pockets, he can feel all of his possessions. He wonders what's really important anymore. They are gone, his mother and father, the only two constants in his life. Now he was just a lonely soul.

She walked up behind him, standing a few feet back. She was dressed equally messy, in bare feet as well. She felt angry and pushed aside but she couldn't voice her feelings. He was in another world at this point.

" You okay? " She asked.

" Yeah. " He replied.

" What are you doing? "

" Nothing. "

She approaches him more, once close enough she presses her head into his shoulder. She has done that about three times now. She is not sure why he has kept count.

" You're not just my friend anymore ... Are you? " He says suddenly.

" No. " She replies.

" You okay with that? "

" Completely. "


End file.
